The other night, on my way to a casting workshop, I hustled up La Brea Blvd., otherwise known as the Hollywood Grand Prix.At a red light, I encroached a couple of feet into a crosswalk before stopping. The stoplight camera, however, assumed I was cruising through, and lights flashed as it snapped my pic. I quickly took my own photo, above, and emailed it to myself, hoping it’ll serve as some sort of proof that I put the brakes on.
I’m not sure if every city has these godforsaken contraptions at their intersections, but here in commuter-heavy Los Angeles, they carry a lingering reputation as the Darth Vader of rush hour.
So now I watch the mail, waiting for a ticket and a wallet-size photo of me at the light. But let me make this clear: I’m not going to be bamboozled out of 450 bucks for something I didn’t do. Bring it, pigs.
